


Moonlight

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and the moonlight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlight

It's late when he finally arrives home, when the season is finally through and the endless whirl of parties and teas and balls and dinners is over; when a hundred and one potential suitors have been presented and turned away, when a hundred and one tears have been shed by the girls over this boy or that, when a hundred and one glasses of wine have been poured and consumed, when he has missed her a hundred and one times.

It's late, and the moon is full as he lingers in the courtyard. The air is warm and ripe for something, some kind of expectation, some kind of beginning under that full silver disc and he lingers on and on, looking at it, leaning against a barrel.

Carson is tired, as he is always is after a full season; he's tired of endless demands and problems and plans, sick of retiring to a single bed in a small room at the end of exhausting days. No one to ask after him, no one to care how tightly he's wound. No one to hash over problems with or just sit in comfortable silence by an open window, sipping at small shots of sherry. No soft eyes, no gift of a smile to wash over him, to rejuvenate him for the next long day.

The moon is big, heavy, low in the sky and the air is warm and he has missed her.

They have a housekeeper in London, of course, younger and louder than Mrs. Hughes. She fusses, she obsesses over things that bother him, complains about the maids. She fusses over him, as well, tells him that he should take it easy, that he should rest. It chafes at him and he snaps at her, because her words are not said with that unsaid something that clings to Elsie's words, to her little worries about him. They are said with a cluck of pity, because he's old to her. Old and creaky and getting older every year they see one another.

He is not old with Mrs. Hughes. He is not old when he rants and raves and she replies not with a condescending patting down but with an eye roll, a spicy comment that makes him want to pull her into his office and show her just how  _in charge_  he is, just exactly how she should show him some respect. Pull her in and lock the door and assert a little hierarchical authority. He's going to put her right over his knee one day if she's not careful with the teasing and the taunting and the flagrant insubordination. Of course, she'd argue that she's in no way his subordinate and he supposes that's true. Supposes he can't really argue with that. Carson smiles, tilts his head back.

Wishes she had waited up for him, wishes she were here to appreciate the moon.

He thinks of how she'd look in all of this streaming soft light, how her skin would glow from the inside like a cold gem burned there, how her eyes would shine iridescent, shifting; the light would catch the silver strands in the dark and set them alight with a celestial fire. Every year, Carson thinks this will be the year. This will be the year that he speaks up, reaches out, states his case.

This will be the year that he courts her.

And every year, he finds a reason not to. Lady Mary needs his full attention, the house is in crisis, the staff is shorthanded and they don't need any further stresses, any other distractions. Every year, he talks himself out of it by the time he reaches the house from the train station. He's too old, she's not interested, it would ruin their friendship that he values so highly. He always finds what he now understands are excuses.

He wishes she'd say something, but that's not right, either. She shouldn't have to, she shouldn't have to extend herself and be bold; it's the man's place to put himself on the line so a lady never need fear rejection. She is worth every courtesy and bit of chivalry that the ladies upstairs get. Every bit and more.

The moon drops, sinks a little lower, and he lingers on, admiring it, and he's so lost in the shining brilliance that he doesn't hear her approach in her light summer dress, with shining eyes, silver-gilded hair. Only when she's almost at his elbow and speaks in that lovely rolling tongue does he become aware of her and he turns, looks down at her smiling there, and before he can stop himself he touches his thumb lightly to the full apple of her cheek, touches all of that softness.

And this is the year, after all, when he will say something.


End file.
